


It's Been Weird Lately

by solipsist



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Family Secrets, Five Nights at Freddy's: Sister Location, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26146144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsist/pseuds/solipsist
Summary: You died three weeks ago and everybody knows it but you.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	It's Been Weird Lately

**Author's Note:**

> aka: "william take some responsiblity for once and admit you fucked up with all of your kids" "no ❤︎"

Dad is acting weird again. He thinks Micheal doesn’t notice. 

It started with a shout when he came home from work. It started with Dad covering his mouth and staring with the strangest expression. 

“Oh my God, I - should I - um. I have… you know where the first aid kit is, right? Um. Wow. Oh God. You… do you want my help?”

Micheal stared blankly. 

“I can do it myself.”

Dad lowers his hands from his mouth, that awful expression unchanging. 

“Right. Of course you can. Should I take you to the… for… stitches?”

“I’m really tired. Can we do that in the morning?”

And with the smallest voice, Dad says yes. Micheal takes a shower and then decides in the morning he doesn’t really need stitches since the ACE bandages are doing a good job of holding things together. It really doesn’t hurt anyways.

But the event continues on. Thinking Micheal doesn’t notice. 

Why does that sad smile never leave? Where did Dad’s newfound anxiety root in? Across rooms, he’ll stare at Michael. He’ll open his mouth to say something. But that smile comes back and he shakes his head, saying it’s nothing. Could he kindly get off the couch? No, he doesn’t have to turn his DreamCast off, he can sit on the stool. Dad just wants to wash the cushions. 

Secret talks happen behind Micheal’s back. He’s pretending he doesn’t hear. 

“I don’t _know_ what I’m supposed to say! You know what he’s like.”

“How long, William? You’re not going to be able to pretend forever. Someone’s going to say something to him. And then what?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! He’s sensitive, he’s -”

“Just because he’s a schizophrenic does not mean you get to lie to him like that!”

Every time those secret talks happen, Dad wails in frustration and Henry storms out. Henry is in on this too. Henry doesn’t care if Micheal knows. Ever since that first night, there have been no invitations to help him in the workshop. There are no more calls to make sure he’s doing alright. Henry’s visits are shorter, Micheal can’t pretend things are normal when there are no more Sundays when Henry makes dinner for them and Dad insists on breaking open a wine bottle’s neck instead of taking the cork out and the both of them get on Micheal’s case about staying on the television for too long. Take a break, kid! Your eyes are going to fall out! Dear, you’ve got those little models from the shop. Why don’t you go and work on those? Henry doesn’t come around anymore. And Dad spends long hours in the office if he’s not out staring and sighing at Micheal. 

“I’m not hungry.”

Dad made him three sandwiches to make up for a skipped breakfast and lunch. 

“Please try to eat. You are not going to get anorexia like that Sullivan’s girl.”

If he doesn’t eat those sandwiches, Dad is going to bitch and moan for the rest of the night about how Micheal doesn’t appreciate him. 

White bread has no flavor. But the cheese and ham are simply objects in his mouth. Shaped and feels right, tastes like nothing. 

“Did you switch brands or something?”

“No! No. No, I didn’t. Why? Is something the matter?”

Now if Micheal says something, Dad’s going to have a panic attack and lock himself in the bathroom with his medicine cabinet for the rest of the night and get up late. 

“No. Just wondering.”

That insufferable smile doesn’t crack. 

One sandwich is left. 

“I’m really not hungry.”

“Nothing to drink?”

“No.”

“Okay. Alright. Why don’t you go play something? I need to clean the chairs.”

Dad is probably off his anxiety medication. 

Micheal is immeasurably exhausted. Television lights are too bright. The controller buttons won’t work like they used to. Audio cues are missed. Every pixel moves too quickly and it gives him a headache. He can feel Dad’s eyes boring into the back of his head. The stench of ammonia and bleach sinks into everything around him.  
Yawns, jaw clicks. Micheal has discovered he can disjoint his left elbow and put it back without pain. Dad is not amused with this. Dad looms over him with yellow plastic gloves and a disinfectant. 

“Up. Bed. I need to wash the cushions.”

“ _Alright_ , weirdo.”

Lately Micheal hasn’t been able to sleep. Faraway stars are too blurry to see these nights. The ace bandages won’t come off. Micheal swears to fucking Christ they’ll peel his skin away too. But it’s not really too much of a concern. It doesn’t hurt and it does a good job keeping everything in, even if it’s stained black with blood.   
Every night he stares up at the ceiling. It’s nice. Once noisy thoughts and a thousand creatures crawling across his eyeballs are silenced. Maybe he’s cured now. Doctors might be onto something. And though he can’t sleep and there isn’t much to think about, Micheal has found comfort in the nothingness. It’s just as good as sleeping. He feels like a bag of bones and would like nothing better than to stare into nothing forever. 

Dad opens the door. Only his eyes can be seen. 

“Get up early. I want to wash your sheets and mattress.”

“I get it. Jesus.” 

The door slowly swings back shut. A crack remains. 

“I…” 

Dad joins the nothingness. 

And Dad reemerges from the nothingness. 

“Never mind. Sweet dreams.”


End file.
